Icewind Dale
by Brynn Dharielle
Summary: Dropped! IWD1 Novelization:: Jerrod died to deny the demon hordes acces to the Realms, becoming a legend. With Crenshinibon, Poquelin threatens to disrupt the balance once more, even as an unsuspecting party of six attempts to help the people of TenTowns.
1. 00 Prologue

_Well, since I'm currently on hold with my other story, waiting for more answers to my question, and I just couldn't sit by idly, I've decided to type in something I've seen less people attempt. Everyone's doing Baldur's Gate or Neverwinter Nights... I figured I'd do Icewind Dale._

_Now, the proper disclaimer would be quite pointless from my point of view, since this is a "fanfic" which implies automatically that nothing here is mine alone._

_I'm afraid you'll have to go through this -points below- and wait until next part before you actually meet the party of six that I'll be using through the storyline. As a side note... I don't think I'll ever find the desire to watch that introductory cinematic again... nearly 30 times in a row more than suffice. -nods, almost insanely-_

**----------**

**Introduction**

"They say that history... is the greatest of all teachers," the man's voice said calmly. It was the balanced tone of a weary old storyteller, clouded in remembrance, someone who had nothing left to do with his life but preserve memories. He took small breaks once in a while, to breathe, but it was an expertly calculated procedure meant to preserve the suspense. The same as the emphasis he put into some of the words, and the contrasts he struggled to create between certain images and others.

"And that tales of past deeds define WHO we are in the present, and what we shall BE in the future," he added, the only readable expression in his well-chosen polished words remaining that of a thoughtful mind.

"It is said that such tales shall, with each telling, illuminate us all with the light of truth."

Even as he made his last statement, three white candles sprung up to life on the desk in front of him, one after the other – center, left, right, their small twinkling flames cast their weary light about.

"I shall tell you of such a tale," the voice continued, addressing an unseen audience, absent by all appearances. "It is a tale quite familiar to me, for I have spent nearly a lifetime piecing it together and chronicling it here... within this book."

Wind from an unknown source caused the small flames to shift, a game of shades and lights engulfing the book that lay closed on the desk, held together by the heavy press of iron bindings, only inches away from the candles. Its cover bore a strange sigla, that of a dead tree on the bluish background of harsh winter, contained within a rhombic frame.

"For years, I have pondered its passages, studying every line, committing EACH word to memory. Perhaps now, in the telling of it, I shall at last find the answers I seek."

The speaker himself remained out of the scene. Even his shadow kept away from the desk, the book, the candles; away from his own sight. Slowly, beginning with a creak, the cover swung to a side, and the book opened to reveal yellow pages, framed by an intricate gray model of dancing lines and squared spirals. The upper half of the first page was covered by a picture, a crude drawing of an imposing mountain peak dominating a smaller one at its side. Below, rows and rows of orderly calligraphic handwriting followed its own course in black ink with great care.

"Our story," the man's voice was quick to explain, "takes place in the northern region of Faerun known as Icewind Dale." The tranquil, steady pace was kept to perfection, the level of liveliness calibrated in its place. "It is a harsh, frozen land, cut off from the rest of the world by a wall of jagged peaks, called the Spine of the World."

The page turned, the same manner the cover had drifted away to reveal it, and made room for the next, on the same side. Again, there was a picture – but this one had life in it, insignificant and small though the forms may have been, compared to the wintry peak's majesty.

"For centuries," he described unfalteringly, "the icy plains of the dale have been home to the barbarian tribes of Uthgardt, and Reghedmen."

Another turn of the page, another picture uncovered to the dim candlelight. This one was the portraying of a family of such barbarians, sitting by their fire and conversing, as full of life as the small child playing nearby.

"Huddled together in small, closely knit tribes, the barbarians lived simple lives." The intonation was almost sympathetic towards that which was being spoken of, somehow managing to capture the exact simplicity that made the whole image so... homely. And so fitting to the description that followed – "Free, proud, and fiercely independent."

A break was taken, before the tone changed. The same image appeared with the next drift of the page, only now the family had turned to look at the cliff in the distance behind them. Watching them from the top, was a shady man on horseback.

"Until the day an Archmage named Arakon came to Icewind Dale," the voice explained to the nothingness, sobering up to match the new course the story took.

More riders appeared at the looming figure's side, and the distant rustling of many horseshoes pounding against the ground at once, then a faint scream of dismay, were heard in the background of the storyteller's next words – or maybe it was just in his memory? "With an army of mercenaries, Arakon sought to conquer the North and FORCE the fierce barbarians... into slavery."

A man who had collapsed to his knees at the side of his fallen comrades, while a huge fire burned their village in the background, had been caught lamenting about his losses.

"Long weeks of battle followed," the words flowed on, as the pages continued to turn, one after the other, struggling to depict what was being said and follow the course faithfully, "and the scattered barbarian tribes suffered terrible losses. Defeat... seemed inevitable."

"In their darkest hour," – a glint of hope marked the next words, while the pictures showed a great figure dominating his barbarian kin benevolently, and gathering them by his side – "a barbarian shaman named Jerrod came forth and demanded a council between all of the remaining tribes of the north. A renowned and reputed warrior, Jerrod persuaded the council to put aside their differences and unite against Arakon."

The men in the pictures were now hopeful again. Powerful again. They struggled anew, together.

"Strengthened by a new sense of purpose, the barbarians rallied behind their new leader. The combined might of the Northmen proved more than a match for Arakon, who had counted on the division of the tribes." The voice began to rise as it went on and on, to meet the new intensity of the story it was telling. "Wave after wave of barbarian warriors tore into Arakon's hired army, forcing them on the defensive, and ultimately, into full retreat."

Another page turned with a leaf-like flutter, and the view switched to the chaotic scene of a mage attempting to summon something huge, amid scattered groups of combatants. Hurrying to catch up, the man continued to speak. "As his army crumbled around him, Arakon had time for one last, DESPERATE act before his enemies descended upon him."

Terrifying demonic figures were shown in the book, immortalized halfway through their passage into the world as they came from beyond. "Drawing upon his remaining power, the Archmage breached the planar boundaries, tearing open a portal to the Lower Planes."

Strange sounds echoed hollowly yet again, from a very distant far-flung place, still without appearing more real than too vivid a memory... a simple recollection.

"The foolish Archmage's cries of victory immediately turned to shrieks of terror... as the hideous and twisted shapes of demonkind materialized from the portal and poured onto the battlefield. The sudden appearance of the demons drove the combatants, barbarian and mercenary alike, to turn to meet their new threat... side by side."

The voice grew aggravated, while the turning pages revealed scenes of bloodshed and horror, men rendered helpless in front of throngs of demons. "The remaining warriors bravely charged the portal to drive the hellspawn back..." it said, "...and were SLAUGHTERED... by the hundreds."

The view switched again, to follow a solitary man in his path, a corpse lying at his feet as he had been watching the battle from a higher vantage point. His head, however, was now hopefully turned to even greater heights. "As his people fell around him," the narration went on, "the barbarian shaman, Jerrod, looked up from the blood-drenched snow of the battlefield and caught sight of a lone figure high upon a ridge in the distance. Jerrod immediately recognized this vision as an omen from his god, Tempos. And, in that instant, he KNEW what had to be done."

More pages turned, to reveal dynamic images followed by rows and rows of more handwriting, but their expressibility was outmatched by the intensity the voice of the storyteller had now risen to. Almost as if he was witnessing it right then, the man went on, pure emotion seizing control of him. "Shouting cries to his god, he CHARGED through the ranks of the demons and PLUNGED into the portal!"

A gust of wind fleeted past the book, turning the next page even as the candlelight faltered for no longer than a second, in a hesitation so short that it seemed like an illusion. The scene had now closed in on the portal, and men were staring at it. A figure hovered in its center... tall... majestic.

"As Jerrod's blood fused with the energies of the portal, an explosion of white light engulfed the battlefield. When the light subsided, the demons were gone and the portal was closed. In its place... hovered a disk of solid stone. Frozen within the center of the disk was Jerrod's body, locked in his final moment of agony... in his final moment... of TRIUMPH. For all eternity."

The gust of wind grew stronger and gained in quickly, whistling. Suddenly, it all was black again; the candles had lost the fight.

"But that is not the end of our tale..." the voice persisted, alone in the dark. "It is... but the beginning."


	2. 01 Such Heroes They Are

_The following six main characters are my own creation, although I wouldn't claim that I own them completely, since I do not own the universe that serves as their base. If, for unlikely reasons that I cannot imagine, you happen to take so much of a liking to any of my characters that you come to think of using them, I won't have anything against it. However, it would be nice if there was a mention giving me credit._

_With that said, yes, the story actually begins this time. I can but hope it meets your expectations and rises up to the standards of the great game that inspired it. You may notice that I've used as much as possible of what I liked from the descriptions and dialogue lines in the game here and there, to maintain the atmosphere._

_By the way, if you'll be wondering about the spelling of "Calishite", which normally should be "Calimshite" as far as I know... well, I was no less surprised, but I checked several times and opened my eyes as wide as possible, perked my ears, sharpened my hearing. That's what it's like in the game, even the pronunciation, so I've kept it._

* * *

**Chapter One – Such Heroes They Are**

The day was full, and as bright as only snow could make it, upon the peaceful fishing village of Easthaven, one of what had become known as the Ten-Towns of Icewind Dale. Simple and modest, not very large at all, Easthaven could hardly be called a "town"; a collection of ramshackle huts crowded together at the base of cliffs along the icy shorelines of a small bay at Lac Dinneshere was a much more adequate description.

Despite it being the relatively warmer time of the year, the weather showed no signs or intentions of softening; on contrary, the winds were bringing more snow from the mountain peaks each day, to add to what was already falling from the clouded sky above. This harsh weather was unusual, even for such a remotely Northern location as the so-called Spine of the World; the locals had begun to regard it with concern more and more, with each day that went past without any change for the better, but no one was yet too seriously worried.

However, what the weather had significantly accomplished was managing to keep most people indoors, especially within taverns, where alcohol was always ready to warm anyone up. It was inevitable, even for the group of new arrivals to Easthaven, a young lot of six would-be adventurers, who were now sitting huddled around a table full of bottles, mugs and goblets, some empty and others not, just like everyone else at the 'Winter's Cradle', the decent-enough local tavern.

"Maybe we should venture into the wilderness of the mountains, from here," Sarrajah, the human bard, and leader of the party, issued enthusiastically, waving her own wine goblet around frantically and threatening to spill some of the red liquid, if she hadn't already.

The woman's rather fragile form was cradled sideways upon the small space offered by the regular tavern chair serving as her seat, and her harp rested on her tummy, quite comfortably, one might add. Silky brown strands of hair draped her bright features, all in all composing a figure that had nothing special about it, really; she was just an average young female, attractive but not strikingly so, sly-looking but not brilliant or imposing in any means one could think of.

Ardrion, the slim black-haired elf sitting across the table from her, a ranger by the looks of it, although his lack of experience was as blatant as a crimson stain on an immaculate white background, gave her a slightly disdainful look. It would have so seemed that he had never quite taken to liking the bard too much, despite the previously stated fact that she was, at least theoretically, the leader of their small group. The female mage nearby, Laurelia, as obviously moon elven as he was, hurried to soothingly cling to his arm before he could say anything, but the entire scene did not escape Sarrajah's apprehensive eye, as the appearance of a smirk on her lips immediately suggested.

"Hurrm," grunted the tallest figure at their table, Kairn, a grim-looking fully armored warrior with a huge two-handed sword strapped in its scabbard across his back. One might have expected him to say more after that attention-drawing interjection, but not his companions, who didn't even do much in the direction of turning to glance at him. However strong and reliable a brawler, the solid human had never been much of a bright one, to have that much to say about things.

"That's... erm... an interesting idea," came the first nearly fluent reply, put forth by a pleasant-looking man, also human, who went by the name of Maran. His serene blue-eyed face most definitely had something holy about it, which was not a surprise at all, having in mind that he was the party cleric, and a most devoted priest of Lathander. However conciliatory his reply might have been, everyone could guess he really didn't approve much of what the bard had proposed, and she was quick to roll her eyes in response.

"No, it ain't," snapped Tuckel, the only other figure at their table, a diminutive hooded man, by all appearances pertaining to the halfling race, which left little doubt regarding his... occupation. Thief. "I'm not walking all that distance up there to get buried alive under a ton of snow," he grumbled on.

"But what could compare to the breathtaking beauty of the views such ecstatic heights would offer to us?" Sarrajah held on to her point stubbornly and objected.

"Will you keep your poetic views to yourself?" the male elf finally gave into his impulse, even despite the effort of the mage, who was obviously his lover. "Tuckel is right; there is NOTHING up there worth going through so much risk as such a journey would mean. With the weather we've already seen down here, imagine what it would be like in the wild."

The bard sulked visibly, seeming to shrink in her place as she shifted to a side. "Yes, there is..." she mumbled, unwilling, despite all logic, to admit she had been proven wrong. "I'm going to get us another round of drinks," she decided, eyeing the number of rapidly emptying cups on the table as she stood up lazily. "It's my turn, after all."

Just as she was beginning to head off, the middle-aged tall and imposing-looking man who had been watching them for a while, as Tuckel had been quick enough to note some minutes before, started off towards them decidedly. The bard halted a couple of steps away from the table and waited to see what it was he wanted. After all, she was leader, a fact that the approaching man seemed to have noticed precisely, since it soon became more than obvious that she was his target.

"New face in town, eh?" he began as soon as he had stopped in front of her, making use of a half-friendly tone, distant though it may have still been in its respectful elegance. "Well met, stranger. The name is Hrothgar, originally of Hillsfar, but now, after many years of traveling up, down and under Faerun, I am content to call this town my home." He took a break to sigh, his eyes filling with memories of past transgressions. "Who might -you- be?" he then asked, containing the true extent of his interest and just letting a vague trace of it slip in his question.

"Greetings, Hrothgar," Sarrajah curtseyed briefly, trying her best to be as polite as he had been, while glancing back at her companions for a quick exchange of opinions. "My name is Sarrajah Findon," she said, reluctant to give out any more for the time being.

"Well then, welcome to Easthaven," Hrothgar went on the very same way, and smiled shortly, although not quite fully benevolent in the act. "Whatever your business in these parts might be, I would offer you this small piece of advice: while you're in my town, you'd do well to be on your best behavior. These folk are under my protection, and anyone who would seek to do harm to them in any way shall answer to me."

The bard's first impulse would have normally resembled Kairn's, the massive warrior already having felt for the hilt of his sword, but she knew people better than that. Hrothgar wasn't actually threatening them, but his responsibility and the weight it bore upon his shoulders had made him a bit wary of strangers. It was his duty to warn any newcomer to be civil, in order to ensure the safety of his people, and the tenseness was understandable. Sarrajah nodded to him neutrally, attempting to offer a reassuring smile.

"That being said," Hrothgar reacted immediately, a bit comforted by that, "I'll let you get back to your cups. I'm sure you've had a long journey, and you'll find there's no better way to shake off the cold of the road than by downing a few mugs of Grisella's best."

"If you could spare a few more moments, Sir," Sarrajah began tentatively, and the man did not yet go along with his intent of leaving. "Maybe you could tell us a bit about Easthaven? I'm sure you know what's of interest better than we would."

Hrothgar nodded, a bit thoughtful at first, but it gradually wore off as he was finding his words. "If you're in need of lodging, I would recommend talking to Quimby over at the Snowdrift Inn, on the east side of town," he advised. "Equipment and supplies can be purchased next door, at Pomab's Emporium. Pomab's prices ARE a bit high – even for a Calishite – but you'd be better off well-equipped and short of coin than the other way around. Ill-prepared travelers don't last long in these parts."

"Thank you," Sarrajah nodded, her tone sincere.

"There would be one more thing," Hrothgar was yet reluctant to leave.

"Yes?" the bard inquired, growing quite impatient, but not ready to miss the opportunity her expert intuition sensed.

"Once you've had a chance to rest up and get your bearings, come by and see me at my house," the man gently requested, the way he did it clearly implying that it would be of mutual interest. "It's just a couple of doors west from here. I would discuss with you." He bowed shortly. "Farewell," he ended the same flawlessly well-mannered way, before turning about and departing for the exit.

"You heard what he said," Sarrajah put forth, turning to regard her companions, who had been decent enough not to interrupt the exchange of words. The satisfied smile on her lips said it all about her intentions.

"I'd be wonderin' what he could want, first," Tuckel issued, a bit distrustful."Everyone's after somethin' these days."

"The halfling is, yet again, right," Ardrion was quick to validate the argument.

The rest seemed to agree, except Kairn, who placed his clenched fist on the table, easily so by his standards, but nevertheless hard enough to give the mugs a slight shake. "We fight if needed," he punctuated firmly, although not exactly eloquent in his issuing of an opinion. "Kairn ready for fight any time."

Sarrajah glared at the big warrior from the corners of her eye, making a great effort not to roll them. _Why had she taken this brute along? ... Oh, yes, _she reminded herself, _because he could crack a skull impeccably, and that was sometimes unavoidably needed. _The bard sighed. "Maybe we can pry a bit of information from the townsfolk," she suggested, shrugging as she didn't wait for any more replies, her decision already made.

She headed for the bar in slow, calculated steps, which gave her enough time to study the bunch of other patrons present in the room at that time. The looks some of them gave her were casual, at most, and that brought a measure of relief to the woman. The last thing she needed was unwanted attention – she got enough when she was performing, she didn't want any in her leisure time.

"Hey, friend!" a strong, lively voice from her right almost startled the bard. "Well met! Why, ye seem to me like a fresh new vein of ore, all untried and untested."

Sarrajah stopped to regard the short but heavily armored figure who had spoken, a dwarf with a thick long beard holding on to his mighty axe. Something about him was not quite right, but she could not say what exactly...

"I be Hildreth, should ye wish to know," the dwarf introduced himself, seeing that she wasn't saying a thing.

Sarrajah raised an eyebrow swiftly, curiosity filling her eyes. "Hildreth?" she pondered. "Isn't that sort of a feminine name for a burly dwarf warrior?"

The dwarf gave her an awkward look, almost as if taking pity on her. "Do ye not have yer head screwed on straight?" he snapped at the bard, before hitting her with the most unexpected explanation ever. "I AM a female, friend."

"But..." Sarrajah staggered, shaken and quite taken aback. "You have a beard!"

Oh, so experienced they were, this new group of adventurers, weren't they? Surely they did not fail to gloriously look like it on every occasion held out for them.

"What, do I nay look like a wo..." Hildreth was just saying, but interrupted herself to respond to the new exclamation. "Oh. I see what it is now. Dwarven women have beards, friend."

"Ah, that makes sense," Sarrajah tried not to blush embarrassedly as she apologetically replied. "Say," she then hurried to change the subject, eagerly. "Have you heard any news from around here lately?"

"I'm not all eyes and ears here," Hildreth shrugged, although still a bit amused at her. "Mostly I've been keeping to my cups to keep the chill away. But I have heard that a local sword named Hrothgar is putting together some sort of expedition. Sounds like it might be fun. I'll be goin' along meself."

"Oh?" Sarrajah did her best to look only half as interested as she was, keeping the conversational tone. She was grateful enough Hildreth hadn't seen or recognized Hrothgar earlier, since now she could ask her for details at her leisure. "What do you know about the expedition?"

"The folks 'round here say that Hrothgar be a valiant man," Hildreth replied, "but not the type to go dashing off to his death. They say he be an excellent leader. We're headed up to the mountains to investigate some sort of disturbance up there. Ye'd best be talkin' to Hrothgar himself to hear the full story."

That left little doubt about what Hrothgar had wanted, in the first place, and what he was going to talk to them about if they went by his house. Or at least that's the sense it all made inside of Sarrajah's head. "That's a good idea," the bard smiled thankfully. "We'll go find him soon enough."

Hildreth nodded, and since there wasn't much more to tell, they agreed they'd see each other on the expedition, perhaps, and the dwarf woman returned to her cups, while Sarrajah resumed her casual stroll to the bar. Once there, the bard leaned forward onto the counter, elbows firmly planted in the wooden surface as she waited for the middle-aged bartender to notice her.

"Hello there, dearie," the portly woman finally took note and came around, smiling benevolently. "Welcome to the Winter's Cradle tavern. My name's Grisella; I own and operate this fine establishment. What can I get for you?"

"How about a few more drinks for me and my companions?" Sarrajah demanded politely.

"Drinks?" the woman seemed to be a bit reluctant, despite what she was attempting to look like. "Of course, dearie." She nodded eagerly, the smile on her face a bit of a fake and distracted one now. "After all, this is a tavern... plenty to drink here, heh heh."

Sarrajah frowned a little, unable to fight back a smirk. If she could tell correctly – and she should, the way her intuition had developed with her being a bard – the woman was holding something back from her. "Well?" she pressed tentatively. "What do you have?"

"Yes, well..." Grisella shifted uncomfortably. "You see, I'm in a bit of a bind right now. I've just run out of everything. I've nothing to offer you in the way of drink at this moment."

"You've run out of everything?" the bard raised a disbelieving eyebrow, most definitely amused by it all.

"Well, the tavern hasn't run completely dry," the bartender answered the same shifty way, trying to look innocent. "I do have some stock down in the cellar, but..."

Sarrajah waited... at first. When no reply came, she almost rolled her eyes and held back a few different sarcastic remarks she could have made at that point. "But what?" she urged forward, with growing impatience.

"This is rather embarrassing..." Grisella confessed, her eyes trying to avoid the bard's direct stare. "But, I'm having somewhat of a pest problem down in that dirty ol' cellar and I'm afraid to go down there. I do so hate bugs! Just the thought of those nasty creepies and crawlies sends shivers down my spine."

_Great, _Sarrajah thought to herself, _a tavern with no booze and bugs to boot. I can't wait to see the rest of this town._ She cleared her throat. "I see," she then mused, doing her best to keep her tone as polite as she was still able. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"That's awfully sweet of you, dearie," Grisella beamed, although attempting to conceal as much. "But I don't expect you to go to any trouble on my account. I'm sure I'll think of something."

"Have no fear, madam," the bard dove into theatrically valiant emphasis, pulling herself up from the bar as she promised. "I shall see to it that the pests down below trouble you no further."

"Wonderful!" the bartender was more than just quick to accept. "The stairs to the cellar are in the back room. Now you be careful down there, dearie, and don't let any of those little buggers creep back up here, alright?"

Sarrajah nodded, then spun on her heels in an all too gracious fashion, to head back for her friends. Once she was standing by the table, a sly smirk on her lips, all of their eyes were upon her, regarding her with curiosity... as much as each of them was disposed to show it, of course.

"Up, my wonderful band of sloths," she praised them on a lively tone, gesturing for them to stand up quickly. "We've a task."

"We do?" Ardrion quirked an eyebrow suspiciously. "And what exactly might that be, pray tell?"

She shrugged, a flawless mask of innocence covering her features. When she did, eventually, tell them, she tried to sound as casual and excited as possible, hoping they would just shut up and get on with it.

"What?" Laurelia immediately wiggled her nose in disgust, as a response.

"Ooooh!" Ardrion sarcastically exclaimed, not even trying to look as if he wasn't mocking her. "THAT oh-so-very-important a task!"

Their cleric cleared his throat gently, which had never failed to get all of their attention so far. "Friends," Maran began, soothingly. "As meager as the task may be, the woman needs our help."

No one bothered to ask which woman exactly – Grisella or Sarrajah. With sighs and a whole load of grumbling in protest, they all stood up and grimly proceeded behind their bard leader.

* * *

The cellar was only half as dark as they had expected – tales always seemed to exaggerate details like that, even Sarrajah begrudgingly admitted upon her friends' suggestion – but damp and a bit wet, not to mention not quite welcoming and comfortable to be in. On the front and right wall as one descended the stairs, old wooden racks held numerous bottles of wine and other spirits, covered by a rather thick layer of dust and cobwebs. Tucked in the looming shadow of the staircase, crates of foodstuffs lined the third wall, while the fourth, to their left, had wooden casks of strong smelling brews stacked along its line.

"Lovely..." Sarrajah herself remarked, just as Kairn was boldly passing by her and heading on to the task at hand, without much thought beforehand.

The large warrior's heavy steel boot came down hard to the floor, squishing a most disgusting little creature, called by its regular name a "bug". The others sighed, yet again, and gloomily proceeded to doing the same to the rest of the tiny annoyances, wherever they could spot them. After a while of such intensive and difficult work, they all came to agree that there seemed to be no more bugs left for them to stain their shoes with. Obviously relieved, the valiant adventurers headed back up the stairs and out into the common room again.

Sarrajah parted ways with her comrades, who headed back for the table, and she went straight for Grisella, seating herself up on the counter in front of the woman. That didn't seem to please the bartender much, but the bard didn't allow her much time for a reaction. "It's done," she beamed with the pride of her newest glorious accomplishment. "Those bugs won't be troubling you anymore."

"Thank you, dearie," Grisella was obviously more than just relieved to hear as much. "You're a lifesaver." She leaned forward, closer to Sarrajah's ear. "Just do me one more favor, keep this little bug problem between you and me. I don't want folks thinking Grisella's place isn't clean."

The bard nodded, and then eagerly received her well-earned set of free drinks, with which she hurried to return to the rest of her so skilled a party. Toasting, they all began to converse happily; even the cranky Ardrion cheered up a bit as soon as a new goblet filled with wine was set before him.

"To you all," Sarrajah began, inclining her glass towards the rest, before she could interrupt the line of her smile in order to take a long sip.

"... oh-so-great and almighty heroes," Tuckel was eager to add, snickering.

However, for reasons other than out of the goodness of their hearts, which aren't all that difficult to guess, all were quite willing to forget what great heroes they had been and brilliant enough not to seriously boast about it... too much. Sarrajah much more rather concentrated upon sharing what she had found out from Hildreth with the rest of the party, and they agreed that it wasn't such a bad idea to go talk to Hrothgar after all. At any rate, the good mood persisted for some while, until later that day, when they finally decided they could leave the tavern.


	3. 02 Meandering

**Chapter Two**

**Meandering**

The brightness was almost unbearable to the six companions' eyes, compared to what little dimness the candles inside the tavern had offered. It wasn't about the intensity of daylight, especially with the afternoon drifting towards its early end, as much as this was due to the enormous quantity of snow all around, just what it needed for amplified reflection. They stammered around for a bit, slowing down, until their eyes adjusted well enough; by that time, they were standing close to a group of children gathered around the diminutive stain of brown on the white background that was a lost squirrel.

"It kinda looks like a furry rat," said one of the girls, snickering.

"Let's poke him with a stick!" eagerly suggested a boy to her right.

"No," a more compassionate kid opposed this last idea. "I'm gonna go ask my momma if we can keep him."

"Can he do any tricks?" another boy was immediately curious.

The party paid little more attention to the gathering and its important business further than that. "Think we should go see this Hrothgar right now?" asked Tuckel, fidgeting with an edge of his dark green cloak impatiently.

"How about tomorrow?" Sarrajah yawned tiredly. "I'm dying for a good bed right now."

"Kairn not tired," came a gruff reply. "Kairn fight well."

"Me too," Laurelia sighed, quick to ignore the warrior in order to reply to the bard.

"You fight well, too?" Sarrajah teased, amused despite her general desire to look intellectually superior to the others.

The elven mage rolled her eyes. "You know what I meant," she replied sharply. "You've not retrograded to some less intelligent life form, have you?"

"Just 'cause you can't taste a joke?" the bard snorted. "I doubt it."

"As much as I enjoy your pretense of a conversation," Ardrion interjected ironically, wrapping an arm around his lover's waist and pulling her close, "we're going to freeze to death if we keep standing here like statues."

"Yes, off to the inn with us," Tuckel agreed.

The two women shrugged, still casting wary glances at each other as the party started off along the generous path distinguishable between the piles of snow gathered around houses on both sides. This trail had been cleaned off by the townsfolk and subsequently battered by the numerous steps taken along it, so now it would have taken a few days for nature to cover it back, even if everyone decided to suddenly stop walking that way. However, what no one noticed was they were heading west, while they had just earlier been told the inn was in the eastern part of the village. Again, the tremendous amount of experience was speaking. Great heroes, we've told you so already.

All of the houses, with stairs to platforms sitting up a few inches from the ground, so that intensive snowing wouldn't block the doors and entrances alike, were completely made of wood and didn't look too accommodating, although our travelers failed to notice this last aspect... well, mostly. At any rate, they made their way past a number of such houses, the first one being the fishmonger's, as the half-frozen sign planted in front of it pointed out quite clearly. Finally, although there was no sign of an inn anywhere nearby, they did manage to reach some place they could find temporary shelter from the already winning cold – a taller building, with windows composed of stained glass, which left little doubt about it being a Temple.

Just as Sarrajah held her hand out for the handle, intending to lead the party inside, a woman who was already in there proved quicker to open the door from the other side, and our brave adventuress almost stumbled into her, taken off balance. She excused herself immediately, turning to face her companions' amused smirks with a death-glare.

"A minstrel!" exclaimed the townsperson excitedly, when her eyes fell upon the harp strapped at Sarrajah's waist.

"Indeed," the bard performed the courteous half of a reverence.

"Ha, now you're a sight for cold eyes," continued the plain nameless woman, just one out of a hundred more. "Hasn't been much in the way of entertainment since Ol' Jed fell out of his boat last month in Dinneshere, and we had to fish him out before he pickled the lake.

Sarrajah waited for the woman to finish her laugh, trying not to glare at her and most definitely holding back from pridefully pointing out that she was a performer, not a buffoon, and the comparison of her art and trade with "Ol' Jed" and his misfortune wasn't fitting.

"So, minstrel," the townsperson eventually picked the line back up from where she'd left it. "Going to regale the Winter's Cradle with a few tales tonight?"

"Actually," Sarrajah shook her head, perhaps giving herself a bit more importance than necessary, "no, I intend to create some new tales during our stay here in the North. I have one concerning our travel here, if you would hear it."

"Sure would," the commoner eagerly accepted. "Anything'd be better than hearing the wind whistle across the lake."

"All right, then," Sarrajah almost rolled her eyes at this new, and also unfitting, comparison, with the 'honor' of having been declared winner not compensating much for the rest of the displeasure. Then, clearing her throat, she slipped into her usual sly self, the one that managed to blend courteous formality and simplicity together so well. For the next few moments, she emphatically recited her newest poem, the one she had composed only a week ago, during one of their camp stays. Indeed, the praise she gave to her six heroes – their leader especially, mind you – impressed the woman to such an extent that she offered her a little shiny object... much unlike it failed to do with her comrades, who were nearly bent with silent laughter by the time she was done, each of them pretending to be either coughing, or reaching to scratch some remote part of their body.

"That's fine verse, friend," said the commoner, her eyes glimmering with sincere admiration. "and quite stirring, too – I look forward to hearing more." She pointed to the gem she had just handed over. "That small bit is from me, in case I don't make it to the Winter's Cradle tonight – it came from my brother in the south; he's of the trade, too, and said I should pass it along to the next one I meet. It's not much, but it should pay for your stay while you're in town."

"Thank you," Sarrajah forgot about her companions, beaming, while her fingers clutched the gem, a bluish moonstone, fidgeting with it. "You are most kind. But, enough of my tales – tell me of the town's own."

"Easthaven?" the woman sounded surprised with the question, then mused. "Lived here for quite a span, I have. Things have been getting worse of late, though."

"Ah," Sarrajah prodded the subject with caution. "You mean the weather?"

"Aye," came the reply, just as the bard took note of her companions' suddenly concerned expressions, just as her own was. "Weather's been going from bad to worse. Never seen it get so cold this early in the year, ad there's no sign of it letting up. With all this snow, the passes to the south are going to get snowed in early."

"That's troubling news," the bard approved, then hurried to change the subject. "How about the town itself, though? Any... history?"

"Nothing important that **I** know well enough of," the woman shook her head. "But I could come up with a bit of advice. You're new in town – you'll probably want to get a room at the Snowdrift Inn. It's on the eastern side of town."

"Isn't this the eastern...?" Sarrajah interrupted herself as the woman giggled and shook her head again. "Ah, I see."

"The innkeeper, Quimby, he's a right enough sort," the commoner shared secretively. "He should have plenty of rooms available, but he just got an elf guest from the south, so at least one room is taken."

"You are most kind," Sarrajah smiled politely. "Anything else I should know?"

"Well," the commoner thought for a while. "Aside from Quimby's inn, there's Pomab's Emporium, in the northeast part of town. He can be a right ass, Pomab can." The woman's voice grew with indignation. "I hope you don't need to buy anything from that copper-clenching jackal. Wish that damn Calishite had stayed down south with the rest of his kind."

"I see," Sarrajah did her best to look intrigued; in fact, she was, to an extent, since this Pomab seemed to be the only potential buyer in town for the gem she had just received. "And aside from that?" she pressed on.

"This here's the temple of Tempus, run by Everard," the woman answered, then hurried to lean closer, conspiratorially. "Hear tell, Everard's the one who saw that messenger from Kuldahar, if you can believe it. Fellow died right on this very doorstep."

"Messenger?" Sarrajah quirked an eyebrow, now truly interested.

"Aye," the woman nodded. "Some fellow from Kuldahar just collapsed on the threshold of the temple, all bloody. Surprised he made it as far as he did – no one knows what he wanted, except maybe Hrothgar and Everard."

"That's something to remember, indeed," noted the bard. "Well, since you seem so versed in the art of information, is there any other place I should see while I'm here?"

The woman gave the matter another thought, before nodding testily. "You might pay a visit to the scrimshander, Apsel, down to the southwest. He's got some nice pieces of art, if you like that sort of thing."

Sarrajah raised an eyebrow, pondering whether she should look THAT new. "What's a scrimshander?" she decided, finally, her curiosity too great, especially when the word 'art' was involved.

"A fishbone carver," came the disappointing answer. "Apsel carves the bones of knucklehead trout into little sculptures and such. Fetch a nice price down south, they do."

"You've been most helpful," the bard expressed her already-sincere-by-now thanks.

"No problem," the woman nodded, just as she seemed to realize how much time she'd lost in there. "Oh dear! I must be off now. Good day to you," she quickly excused herself and fled.

"Looks like we've got ourselves a schedule," remarked Tuckel, arching a brow the leader's way.

"Mhm," she agreed, smirking wryly. "Busy one, at that. Now let's get in here and warm our feet for a little while... maybe we can talk to this Everard she mentioned."

They all scuttled up the stairs behind her, then entered the Temple one by one, paying the proper religious respects, the quiet Maran especially. Once they were in, a mutual agreement fell between them – the five that were actually sentient, that is – that they should act like casual visitors. Being in the Temple because you couldn't stand the cold outside was just as unadvised a thing to admit as the fact that you had come to ask about the Temple's business with the messenger from Kuldahar.

Kairn's enthusiastic skip-over to look at the exhibits on both sides of the huge bolted room helped with that, and the others decided it would be beneficial to follow him. They began with the three on the left side. The first one was a huge warhammer, its steel head bound with studded bronze bands and speckled with what appeared to be dried blood. It looked like it would take the combined strength of two men to wield this weapon, and it sure took Sarrajah some intensive use of her persuasive skills to convince their half-brained companion not to attempt that feat in the first place. The inscription upon the stand read: "Bonecracker. This magnificent weapon belonged to the legendary warrior Dumok the Fist, who died on the assault of Dragonspear Castle."

"Someone who could wield... THAT... actually died in a battle?" Sarrajah mumbled under her breath, and the others, once again except Kairn, chuckled. Then, they moved on to the next object.

The battleaxe was buried deep into the very stand upon which it rested. Hundreds of tiny notches had been whittled into its black, oaken handle. Just as the warhammer, it had an inscription: "Bloody Ashrem's Axe. This merciless warlord reputedly used this axe to personally execute his prisoners. He was eventually brutally dismembered by his own troops."

"Surprise, surprise," it was Ardrion's turn to comment.

"We should be glad," Maran interjected tentatively, "that evildoers eventually find their fitting deaths." That brought him a few questioning looks from the others in quite the short amount of time, and he was quick to add some more. "Ah, of course, if they're really beyond any chance at redemption." he finished with a meek smile of his own.

A chuckling party moved on yet again, to the third object, and the last along that particular wall. It was a round shield with a number of wicked barbs protruding from its surface. A flaming sword, the holy symbol of Tempus, had been etched into its center. "The shield of Maergeth of the Order of the Steel Fang," read the inscription, "slain on the eleventh day of the Battle at Boareskyr Bridge."

No one had anything to add concerning this one; they had no idea about that battle whatsoever... not that they'd had any about the others, either. They moved on to the right-side wall, beginning to walk along it opposite to their former stroll at the left. The first exhibit they ran into was a long and slender lance of astonishing quality and workmanship. The entire length of its shaft appeared to have been coated in gold and its handle was inlaid with various precious gems. Tuckel's eyes shone and his features brightened at the sight; however, he was forced to be satisfied with just reading the words below. "The Golden Lance of Kedwyr. Heralded as the greatest horseman to ever ride in battle, Kedwyr died gloriously upon the Fields of the Dead alongside his trusted charger, Onyx."

Moving on yet again, with the halfling dragged away by Maran, against his will, while muttering something about the dead Kedwyr not needing that anymore, they reached the stand of a large shield with the symbol of a white sword emblazoned upon its surface. Numerous dents and scratches indicated that it had seen many battles. "Rubbish," Tuckel muttered, still unable to cope with having to part with the exquisite lance. Laurelia poked him in the shoulder, since the ribs were too low and she would have required to bend over, even as Sarrajah was reading for them all. "The Shield of Aihonen. A veteran of many battles against the Uthgardt barbarians, Aihonen was lain whilst battling a white dragon matriarch upon the waves of Lac Dinneshere. His body and his blade were never recovered."

"Water's a better tomb anyway," reasoned Ardrion, shrugging, as they proceeded towards the last exhibit. This one was a battered steel helmet, crested with the five serpentine heads of a hydra. "The Helm of Ghardumn Greenaxe," said the inscription. "Ghardumn was the captain of the famed adventuring company, the Dragonclaw Clan. The fate of this legendary swordsman remains a mystery, though he is presumed to be dead. He was last seen entering the Marsh of Tun, alone."

"Maybe our own glorious party needs a name too," suggested a suddenly eager Sarrajah, once again urged forward by her dreamy nature. Ardrion only snorted this time.

"You choose it, genius," their resident halfling thief snapped, definitely not pleased by the idea either.

"Ugh..." the bard stammered, as she thought but nothing good came to her mind just yet. "Maybe later."

Chuckles came again, from all sides, even as Sarrajah almost bumped into a tall blond-haired woman, all fierce-looking in her heavy set of red-trimmed steel armor. "I'm sorry," the baffled adventuress, caught in the process of turning around, stammered.

"It's nothing," the woman nodded. "Well met. I am Accalia."

"The pleasure is mine," the bard's courtesy returned with her swift recovery. "I am Sarrajah."

"It's good to see you've decided to visit," came an enthusiastic reply. "I like it here, at the Temple of Tempus. I'm an initiate. I help Everard maintain the armory you were just looking at, and perform rituals."

"Hmm, Rituals?" the bard had to force herself to look interested, in order not to offend. Her eyes looked for support from Maran.

"What kind of rituals?" the cleric was quick to gently step in with a semi-curious question.

"We celebrate the Feast of the Moon in remembrance of the battle dead," Accalia answered more than eagerly. Obviously, she really DID like it there. "We also sing the Song of the Sword at least once a tenday. Because of the church's close proximity to the site of so many great battles, our congregation also has local celebrations to remember all of the mighty conflicts that have raged against Icewind Dale. The most important Daily Ceremonies are the Feast of Heroes at highsun and the Song for the Fallen at sunset."

"This sounds like more or less the lesson of history the commoner couldn't provide," mused Ardrion at Sarrajah. The bard nodded at him.

"Battles," Kairn expressed his interest, and Accalia gave him a look that, surprisingly enough, wasn't as scornful as those of his companions.

"Yes," Maran was quick to try and obtain the information the warrior obviously wanted. "What local battles do you celebrate?"

"We celebrate the Battle of Jerrod's Stone," Accalia replied evenly, although admiration for that which she was speaking of shone in her eyes. "I'd tell you more about it, but Everard prefers that any questions about it be directed to him... he has somewhat of a different perspective on the teachings than most. Ask him about it."

_Good,_ reasoned Sarrajah, beaming to herself. _Now they had a reason to speak to the man._

"You mentioned the Feast of Heroes and Song for the Fallen?" Maran inquired further, this time for his own curiosity. "What exactly are they?"

"They're pretty straightforward," said the priestess. "The feast of Heroes is a meal that we eat at highsun. During it, we remember the final meal which each warrior eats before he or she enters mortal battle. The Song for the Fallen is a dirge that we sing at sunset as a daily memorial for those who have died in battle."

"Interesting," interjected Sarrajah curiously. "Tell me... what's Everard like?"

"Everard..." Accalia seemed to hesitate for a bit. "Well, Everard is still adjusting to his position here. I think he'd much rather still be serving Tempus on the front lines, but his duty is to guard this holy site – the site of Jerrod's Stone." She took a small break, before becoming really avoidant. "You should really ask him about it; he knows more of the tale than I do."

"Everard is both a warrior and a priest?" Sarrajah pressed on, decided to get the most out of the dialogue. "How does that fit into the Tempuran faith?"

"It is actually part of a simple truth that we Tempurans believe," Accalia strove to explain as best she could. "Conflict is all around us. Every man and woman has something that he or she believes in, which he or she will die to promote or preserve. Tempus tells us that we should live for something of importance. If we kill, if we die... the same. We preach that conflict and war are vital to mankind's existence."

"What a joke!" Laurelia snorted indignantly from behind Sarrajah. "I can't believe you're actually serious. War isn't vital to our existence." Accalia cast her a dark glare, but the elven mage continued. "How about things like love and tolerance? How do those fit into Tempus' plan? Some theory you've got there."

Sarrajah swallowed tightly, even as she turned on the outraged elf and grabbed her arm, beginning to pull her away with Ardrion's own help. The mage would have, probably, done something very stupid, especially given Accalia's reply. "Thank you for starting an argument with me," the priestess sneered Laurelia's way. "You have proven my point admirably. Good day... idiot."

"Err... surely this is something to think upon," Maran concluded respectfully, even as he scuttled off behind the rest of his companions.

"She's NOT right!" huffed the elf, although she ceased opposing the others as they took her away.

They all headed towards the altar, which was more rather a massive pedestal of stone with ironforged edges, bearing the huge statues of a mighty rider and his two horses, upon whose backs he was standing on his feet; Sarrajah let go of the now enraged Laurelia, elbowing her in the ribs before she glanced shortly to the past-middle-aged man standing there, right before the glyph-warded door, set into the floor tiles and seemingly unopenable. Apparently, he had not taken an interest in the scene.

"Hmm?" he seemed interrupted from deep thought. His tone was perfectly calm, and he had something impetuous about him, that demanded respect. Even Laurelia adjusted her demeanor. "Hrothgar mentioned there were strangers in town," the man continued. "What is it you want?"

Sarrajah did her best to look formal, as she reverenced in the most gracious of fashions. "I am Sarrajah Findon," she began. "These are all my companions. ... You wouldn't happen to be Everard, the high priest of this Temple?"

"Yes... I am Everard," he answered with tired reluctance. His voice grew, however, when he continued, as he took a merely natural pride in his titles. "Everard of Tempus, Battle-Priest of the Lord of Battles." He scoured the bard so heavily that for a moment she considered shrinking into the earth and never coming back. "What brings you here?" he asked, finally.

"Err..." she staggered a bit, immediately making use of her most radiant smile. "Accalia said we could ask you about 'Jerrod's stone'," she explained. "She said it has something to do with one of your holy days."

"Jerrod was a shaman who died long ago," the man explained, stunningly brief about it. "He brought unity to the northern tribes and led them to victory against the army of Arakon... at the cost of his life."

"Ah," Sarrajah swallowed the uncomfortable void gathering in her throat heavily. "How did he die?"

"Once Arakon saw his army routed by Jerrod and the northern tribes," Everard was once again right to the point, "he sought to bring the hells to his aid. He opened a gate to the Lower Planes."

"He brought DEMONS to the battlefield!" Laurelia looked appalled.

"The northern tribes would have been destroyed," reasoned Ardrion.

The high priest shot the elf ranger a sharp glare. "I do not believe that." He then sighed, and was perfectly calm again. "Jerrod did," he explained. "It is said that Tempus himself appeared to him upon the battlefield, and Jerrod took that as a sign."

"A sign to do what?" Sarrajah asked, a bit relieved now that those piercing eyes had been taken off her. She regretted the question immediately, when they returned. _By the Gods, why do I feel so small and worthless next to this man?_

"Jerrod believed Tempus was calling him to sacrifice himself for his people to insure victory. And so he cast his body into the portal, his blood fusing it to stone." The man was silent for a few moments, thinking. "It lies entombed beneath the temple to this day," he conceded, pointing to the glyph-rich patterns on the floor.

"You don't really sound like you agree with Jerrod's choice," Ardrion remarked dryly.

A fire lit up in Everard's eyes, as they once again drifted away from the bard and fixed the ranger imposingly, just like the last time he had voiced his own opinion. Some of the words were emphasized, even more than all of them, when he spoke. "Jerrod had no **need **to sacrifice himself. Tempus' appearance was a test of faith, proof Jerrod's people had already won the field that day. Jerrod failed his god and died a **coward's** death."

"Are you sure his death was in vain?" objected Laurelia, standing by her lover's side. Sarrajah gulped and shifted visibly, preparing for the storm that only her experienced senses could foresee. "Jerrod did seal the por-"

"One dies for Tempus with a BLADE in one's hand," interjected the priest, almost shouting, at least as much as so calm a man could. "Not by martyring oneself within the embrace of demon magics! Jerrod's DUTY was to stand with his comrades, not cast himself to his death when the field was already theirs!"

"His sacrifice may have prevented other deaths, Everard," Maran voiced the party's general disapproval in the kindest possible fashion.

"Sacrifice?" the man's anger grew tensely. "Let me say of this 'sacrifice', **young** one, then we shall speak of this no more. Sacrifice is a death that has meaning. When it is in vain, it is not sacrifice. It. Is. A **waste**. ... **That** is the lesson of Jerrod's stone."

Silence. Blinking rounds.

"Err..." Sarrajah dared expertly interfere, coughing a little. "And this stone is buried beneath the Temple?" She flashed a fugitive smile, of the brightest she could muster.

"Aye," the priest calmed back down immediately. "A great stone disk that holds Jerrod's corpse for eternity. And so I... watch and guard it... in Tempus' name."

"I see," the bard nodded, looking truly thankful for that bit of already known information. "I was wondering if I could ask you another question?"

"You are free to ask, traveler," the man bowed his head briefly, but there was no trace of submissiveness in that. "I promise no answers."

"I heard," Sarrajah admitted openly and frankly, crossing her wrists at her back in a casual manner, all that meant to cover her curious interest, "that there was a messenger who came to the temple from Kuldahar."

"Yes," Everard admitted immediately, much to her relief. "A man from Kuldahar found his way to our door, and he was dead by morning. He claimed he was a messenger from the Archdruid of Kuldahar."

"What did he want?" the bard pressed on, testily.

"The man spoke of... disturbances in Kuldahar," Everard looked troubled, but then just shrugged it off. "His wounds prevented me from making any sense of his words – perhaps Hrothgar understood more than I, for he's preparing an expedition."

"So we've heard," Sarrajah confessed. "Are you going on this expedition?"

"No, for my place is here," he answered simply. "Were I invited, I would still not go – my injuries would only slow the expedition."

"I see," Sarrajah pondered asking about that for a moment, but then decided his injuries were none of her business. "Thank you for this most insightful conversation." she bowed shortly. "And be well."

Everard nodded to them all, as they turned around and headed straight for the exit, Laurelia quick to exchange another set of glares with Accalia, when they passed by the young priestess.

"We should head over to Pomab's," Sarrajah noted, once they were out, placing the entire Jerrod, messenger and expedition matter behind them, for now. It was snowing again. "That gem came just in time. We're running low on coin, and I recall we wanted to replace this fire wood?" She gestured with her own weapon, pointing at all the other pitiful staves they were all, except Kairn, carrying around.

"Kairn wants to see skullbasher," came the gruff voice of the warrior from her left.

The bard blinked, trying to figure what exactly could have triggered this event, and what the hell 'skullbasher' was, exactly. "Ah, my brilliant friend," she began tentatively, in the end. "Is it possible that you mean the 'scrimshander'?" A nod from the solid man confirmed her guess; how in the Nine Hells had this stupid thing managed to actually realize that it wasn't in the same direction as Pomab's, anyway? _I guess some things have to remain a mystery, _she reasoned. "Let us go, then," she sighed, exchanging meaningful glances with similarly gloomy-looking others.


	4. 03 Around Town

**Chapter Two – Around Town**

As they trudged through the snow towards the scrimshander's house, the 'adventurers' couldn't help but wonder how the residents of Easthaven managed to still act like normal townsfolk and sit outside, gathered in small groups, to gossip and share tales of their oh-so-important town. Agreed, they had lived there for their whole lives and were used to the cold and snow, but still... a bit of compassion for the newcomers, who were only reminded of their misery when they looked at the careless citizens?

Sarrajah sighed dramatically, just after emphatically hissing that very complaint towards her comrades, hoping to find that they agreed. Needless to say, Ardrion rolled his eyes, Laurelia looked at the bard as if questioning her sanity, Maran smiled complacently, Tuckel snorted, and Kairn blinked. Disappointed by their cruel and far from satisfying reactions, Sarrajah forced her attention back to the commoners around, managing to pick bits of conversation here and there.

Three men on the left had quite overstepped the boundaries with the few bottles of wine they had brought with them from the tavern. Merrily, they were interrupting the conversation with obnoxious burps and hiccups, and all were swaying about, barely able to stand on their own feet. "Swapping tales" had quite successfully turned into "ruining tales".

"Har, har," one of them was just amusing himself unnecessarily more than it was adequate. "Can ye believe thish one? There'sh been shighting of some goblinsh an' sush in the pass."

"Pfah!" exclaimed another, who was had yet do drink quite a few cups before he could be considered as well off as the first. "They usually hole up in the Spine o' the World an' kill each other!"

"Some fool," laughed another, perhaps a bit louder than necessary right there, "claimed he even saw some orcs outside of town."

"That'd be me," another smiled dumbly from the other side of the circle, his inebriated state preventing him from noticing the insult.

"I'll wait 'till ya sober up 'fore givin' -that- tale any weight," the same man who had defamed his story previously snorted his way.

"Suit yerself," the other replied, and burped loudly for a prolonged moment.

Disgusted beyond all means of displaying it, Sarrajah turned her head away with gritted teeth. And this was going to be her audience for the night, hmm? Sad, sad situation. _I'd rather play for a bunch of ogres,_ she thought grimly. There went the prospect of visiting the tavern again that night, to actually tell tales.

That was when the bard noticed the pack of worried wives gathered across the street from the men, with gossip of their own to spin and pass around while watching their husbands closely. _Someone DOES need to be around and drag them off, eventually,_ Sarrajah noted mentally, though she still found it outrageous to see half of the town sitting by idly. How business got around in those parts, IF it did, was beyond the bard's comprehension.

"Did you hear a wolf's been sighted on the outskirts of town?" one of the wives asked the others, giving herself an air of importance similar to that of a countess or duchess... only a slight bit more ridiculous.

"Yes!" another was eager to confirm, leaping at the chance of monopolizing attention and being heard by the others. "We've been keeping an eye out for it, me an' me sister, we have. But it seems to be coming around just for a whiff on the fishbone carvings in Apsel's workshop."

"Damn thing must be starving," one noted, "to be showing itself around humans like that."

"I've gots a better one!" interjected a portly woman, her cheeks red and face sweating despite the cold. _Ten points go to being fat, for keeping you warm,_ the bard snorted at the thought, even as the woman continued to speak in a way that suggested her tale was the best ever to have been told. "Me boy was out playing, an' he swore that he saw a footprint in the snow... as large as a man!"

"Assuming he's not telling tales," the previous one tossed her head, indignant at the attention having been taken away from her, "that would mean giants."

"But..." another looked outraged. "There hasn't been a giant in the Pass since... well, damn near since as long as I can remember!"

"Your son must be imaginin' things," the first to object re-affirmed her already given opinion. While at that, she took the chance to kindly sway the subject back towards her own story.

Suddenly feeling sick with the whole charade, Sarrajah dulled her hearing instinctively and hurried to catch up with the others, who had already gained some advantage over her and were checking out the wooden sign that marked the scrimshander's house. Still, the conversations seemed to somehow haunt her from all parts of town.

"Have you heard about old Jhonen?" she had time to catch another rumor from a side.

"One of the steadiest fellows I know."

"Well, he's been going round with some tune he keeps humming an' looks like he hasn't been getting much sleep," the teller stated soberly.

"The troubles must be hitting him harder than we thought," the group agreed and all gave sympathetic sighs.

The bard made a tremendous effort and managed not to roar out in a much Kairn-like fashion and just drive into the commoners, battering one at random with her staff. She caught up with the others just when Ardrion was greeting Apsel, the scrimshander, with a nod. The fishbones he was obliviously holding in one hand had given the man out for what he was, though he looked rather distressed and lost, standing outside his house like a statue frozen in place.

"Well, here's your 'skullbasher'," Sarrajah noted promptly, her sarcasm well-concealed, as she was stopping by Kairn's side.

"Oh, thank the Gods!" Apsel welcomed them heartily, seeming to just wake up from deep revelry when he finally saw them. Somewhere in the background, Kairn grunted disappointedly, but no one minded him anymore since all were intrigued by the scrimshander's odd behavior.

"We are..." Sarrajah began, but Apsel interrupted promptly.

"Whoever you are," the man said hastily, "you picked the perfect time to wander by. I could really use some help."

Sarrajah sighed and tried not to visibly darken at the lack of courtesy. "What seems to be the problem?" she asked coldly, slipping back into her leader posture in a highly natural way.

"A wolf somehow got into my workshop!" the distressed Apsel announced. "It's tearing the place apart. It attacked me as I was opening the shop this morning! I was SO startled by the sight of the beast that I accidentally... err..." – the man shifted nervously – "...broke the key off in the lock while trying to get away." He sighed heavily. "Now I can't even get back in."

"Lovely," Ardrion remarked coolly, and the others could barely stifle chuckles.

"Uh-huh," Sarrajah acknowledged that she had been paying attention, though a certain lack of interest was obvious. "And what exactly would you have us do?"

"Could you go in there and get rid of that stupid thing for me?" Apsel pleaded. "Then I could get back to my scrimshaw."

The bard sighed dramatically. "Very well," she promised. "We'll see what we can do."

"Of course," the man reminded her. "You'll need to get the door open..."

Sarrajah patted her adjacent halfling companion on the shoulder... as best she could, given his height. "That's your job, yes?" she smiled to him most sweetly.

"My pleasure," Tuckel grinned toothily.

"I sincerely thank you," Apsel looked truly relieved. "The door to my shop is just around the corner here," he added, pointing them in the right direction. They set off while his repeated thanks echoed in their wake.

Once they were standing at the entrance, Tuckel held his side of the bargain and began to work on the lock.

"I could just use a spell, you know?" Laurelia hid her pretense of a bored yawn. Immediately after, though, she realized something, paled suddenly and cast quick glances about to see if anyone had taken her seriously.

"What? Magic Missile?" Sarrajah smirked her way. It was well-known to the party that the elven mage, in the full splendor of her talent and refined skills, only knew that single spell.

"You're right," the female elf admitted, though the glint of mischief in her eyes warned against the belief she might actually cede and accept defeat. "Not suitable for the door. Might cast it on you, though."

"Ladies, please," the party cleric, by excellence the soothing factor in the middle of all conflicts, stepped in humbly. "It is a shame that we should expend our energy fighting each other."

Both the women muttered darkly, glaring at each other, but both gave in to the truth in Maran's words and put an end to their public argument.

"There ya go!" Tuckel pulled away the small elongated piece of iron he'd been working into the lock. "'Tis been taken care of," he added, grinning as he stepped away.

"Sweet," Ardrion stepped forth before any could approach the door and open it. "Now, can we please spare the wolf's life? It is a shame to kill animals when it can be avoided... we could lead him out of town."

"Oh, I'm sure it will tag along just willingly," Sarrajah rolled her eyes as she was sarcastically pointing out.

"I could attempt to charm it," he offered with an apologetic shrug.

"Melamin," Laurelia intervened, finding the perfect combination of softness and determination. "You know as well as I do that if we lead the wolf out, it will return at a later time."

The ranger sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, to nod his acceptance of reality. "Very well," he agreed, and they all walked in, a bit grimmer than before.

The fight was a short one. The wolf would have been a formidable adversary for any of them, but they were six against one. The animal seemed to be particularly 'fond' of Sarrajah, since it was the bard he leaped at and tumbled to the floor; the girl had to promptly shield her face with one arm that got bitten mercilessly, while she clumsily attempted to use the staff in her other hand to bat the animal away. A firm hand, Ardrion's own, came and grabbed the wolf by the nape of its neck, then dragged it away despite its yelps of protest, to where Kairn's rudimentary sword could decapitate it in one move... not without missing the ranger only barely. The body fell to the ground with a thud and the ranger payed homage by gently placing the head in its proper spot and remaining knelt for a few more moments, his eyes closed.

The others made the best of that short time and looked about the shop's only room. Stacked with shelves and rafters, as well as various work benches, it bore hundreds of scrimshaw shavings and bones, fishing poles and gaffs, tools and work with different degrees of completion. The carvings Apsel was currently working on were displayed on a round table in the center, while the polished ones sat triumphantly inside a glass cabinet, free for all to view. Admittedly, some were quite stunning.

In the end, when Maran had been given enough time to tend to Sarrajah's arm with a spell, they made their way back out and found the scrimshander again. "Sarrajah complimented his work and he appeared most flattered, especially after they let him know the wolf problem was settled, though he still had to dispose of the body.

"Oh, I thank you!" Apsel shook the bard's hand gratefully, then handed her a few coins, as well as another object. "Please, accept my humble reward."

"It is well appreciated," Sarrajah assured him with a most gracious smile, then gestured the others to away.

They stopped a few feet further, back on the road, to look at what they had received for a reward. They could count around twenty gold pieces, and the other item was a dagger with a quite keen edge and a handle made out of intricately carved knucklehead trout bone. This last acquisition went to the halfling thief, as it was natural, and the companions wished him to wield it well... maybe in a bit too solemn a fashion for the entire look of them not to drift towards ridiculous, but still.

On they moved, deciding to visit another large building, also made completely out of wood, like the rest, that towered nearby. Upon entering, they were hit by a wave of stale air, smelling of slightly decayed wood remnants and maybe some flavor of cheese. A clerk's desk had been installed to the right, and a man dutifully stood behind it, conversing with a commoner who faced him from the client's side.

"I'm worried the goblin and orc sightings are tied into the problems we've been having with the caravans of late," sighed the clerk meaningfully.

"Caravans have been getting in trouble?" Sarrajah couldn't keep her curiosity in check as she approached, leaving her companions behind to study the room a little. They had long learned to leave conversation and information gathering to the highly charismatic bard.

"Some of them have gone missing," the clerk promptly informed her, turning to regard her studiously.

"Aye," the man he had been talking to confirmed. "At first we thought the snows must be burying 'em, but with goblinoids about, it's more likely -they're- the ones that buried the caravans."

The commoner had quickly gained the air of importance Sarrajah had been so disgusted with earlier, while passing by the housewives, so the bard just nodded shortly. Then, she turned back to the clerk and held out a hand, politely introducing herself, since that was the only natural turn she could give to the dialogue to stop the outrage.

"I am Churin," the man replied, shaking her hand for a brief moment. "May I help you?"

"I was just wondering what it was that you do here," Sarrajah shrugged helplessly.

"Me?" the man looked surprised. "Ah, nothing much. I get paid a sum to store scrimshaw and emergency food supplies here through the harsh winters."

"Certainly sounds like it would be important in a place like this," the bard didn't mean to offend and attempted to show at least some interest. "And what does the rest of Easthaven do?"

"Most of them fish for knucklehead in Lac Dinneshere," Churin answered. "Not a rich living in terms of wealth, but living up here, a man can still lead a very rich life."

"I see," Sarrajah displayed a most charming smile. "And anything interesting you've heard, lately?"

"He don't hear much, stuck in this ol' stuffy warehouse as he is," interfered the other man, who was feeling left out, probably. "But -I- do..."

"Really?" the bard arched an encouragingly curious eyebrow.

"Aye," the commoner nodded. "There's one about Old Jed, who lives in a little shack near the shore of the lake. I'd stay away from him."

Sarrajah doubted this matter was as important as the man was trying to make it, but she nodded anyway. "Really?" she looked as interested as possible. "And why's that?"

"Grisella at the Winter's Cradle cut him off," the man was more than eager to explain. "That drunk fool'll try and get you to spot him a tankard. Watch your purse, alright?"

"I surely will," the bard began to withdraw, finding that a possible and most welcome end to the dialogue. "You are most gracious to warn me."

"T'was nothing at all," the commoner nodded pridefully.

"Oh, hear this one," a man who had just entered rushed over to them before the bard could take her leave. She stopped and began to listen intently, since fits of most intriguing laughter were shaking the newcomer. "One of the girls says she saw some blue-skinned figure down by the shore!"

"Ha, ha!" the three men laughed together, nudging each other suggestively in the process.

"An' she said whoever it was was singing some song," the new arrival continued. "I told her the kids playin' out along the road might be likelier to believe!"

The laughter roared again, and an even more disgusted Sarrajah fled their company quickly, wondering about how much truth that new discovery could actually hold. Deciding it was close and worth checking, she explained to her companions and they all headed out.

Much to their surprise, especially after Ardrion's skeptical remarks, the blue-skinned woman was there, hidden between the lake's nearly frozen waters and some rocks. She was wearing a strange green dress, which glistened and reflected the light in a way similar to the ice itself. Her hair was green, algae-like and tangled like no other, and her features almost as delicate as an elf's. In some ways, she was beautiful and intriguing, if a little spirit-like, almost a mere apparition.

At the party's cautious, but curious approach, her lips moved slightly and she began to sing a soft, flowing song, like the sound of a great undersea current, though the companions had little idea why exactly that. The song did sweep over them, however, engulfing them in its intense feeling for only a few short moments, before it stopped and the woman stood looking at them with hope-filled eyes.

Sarrajah did not know exactly what she wanted, but the song had been beautiful and she stepped forth, fascinated. "My lady," she offered respectfully. "Perhaps I can answer your song with another."

The woman's face seemed to brighten as the bard began, her voice rising softly into a melancholic tune, which revealed the actually beautiful and emotional side of her gradually, as every word seemed to uncover more of Sarrajah's inner self. Eagerly, the woman lent her own voice to the bard's, and the two created an interweaving melody together, one of unspeakable beauty and grace. Oddly enough, the bard suddenly found herself understanding the strange blue-skinned being as they joined in this display of artistic skill.

When finally the song was over, Sarrajah turned her back on the woman with a respectful bow, and returned to her companions. "She is looking for one of the fishermen," she explained, her face still radiating that passion she held within and only revealed while performing. "She speaks to him in dreams, but she is not allowed to approach him in the flesh." She sighed contentedly, her glee and fascination finally showing signs of retreat. "What a beautiful tale..." she mused, while the others pretty much stared at her in bewildered astonishment. "Perhaps we can find this man for her."

"That..." – Laurelia struggled to remember a name – "...young man... Jhonen. The one a I overheard a commoner mentioning. Who was humming a song on the street?"

"I heard that too," the bard confirmed. "Shall we go looking for him, then?"

"If we have to..." Ardrion sighed in a highly tormented fashion.

"Off with us, then," bid the bard, eager to resume moving now that the song's effects were beginning to fade away from her and she could feel the cold bite at her face again. She began to hum, much to the others' dismay, as she lead them back to the town's main road, but she didn't mind their reactions, too lost in weaving dreams and imagining the rest of the story to notice anything.


End file.
